


Turn at Last to Home

by StarSpray



Series: Wisdom of the Evening Star [20]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Homecoming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:25:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4366487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarSpray/pseuds/StarSpray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Idril returns to Tirion</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn at Last to Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written using the Silmarillion Writer's Guild's random prompt generator, for the prompts -
> 
> Character: Idril
> 
> Quote: 'Yet feet that wandering have gone, turn at last to home afar.' - The Hobbit

_Roads go ever ever on_  
_Under cloud and under star,_  
_Yet feet that wandering have gone_  
_Turn at last to home afar._  
_Eyes that fire and sword have seen_  
_And horror in the halls of stone_  
_Look at last on meadows green_  
_And trees and hills they long have known._

\- The Hobbit

* * *

 

As they passed through the Calacirya, Idril's heart started hammering in earnest. Soon they would see it—Tirion upon Túna, the most beautiful city in the world. Or so it was in her memory, which Idril would be the first to admit was colored by time and potent homesickness.

Then they crested a hill, and there it was, towers gleaming white in the noonday sun. And surrounding it were the green fields she remembered so well, scattered now with summer flowers—red poppies and yellow daisies, and bright blue forget-me-nots, and too many others to name. There was _home_ , home as Nevrast and Gondolin and Sirion had never been. Tears stung her eyes at the sight.

Beside her, Tuor inhaled sharply. Idril looked at him, and smiled to see how round his eyes had gone. He moved easily again, now, gifted with renewed vigor and the strength of youth, and the life of the Eldar, a blessing from Ilúvatar himself. The only sign of old age as the Secondborn knew it that remained visible were the lines on his face—laugh lines deepest—and the steel-grey threads in his golden hair. But just now he seemed to Idril more like the young man newly come to Gondolin after spending years alone in the wild.

"I knew your father was trying to recreate Tirion," he said finally, "but…"

Idril laughed. "It fell short of the mark."

"No," Tuor said, so quickly she suspected it had become an immediate instinct to leap to Gondolin's defense. "Or—maybe it did. But I don't think Gondolin was _less_ beautiful. It was just—different."

"My father would be glad to hear you say so," Idril said. "But you've not yet seen Tirion up close." She looked back at the city. "I've not seen it since I was a young girl," she added softly. And then it had been swathed in darkness, devoid of lamps, for they had never before been needed. They had carried torches on the road with them, torches that had been thrown together in haste and which did not burn cleanly, but flickered and smoked and coated them all in soot.

She'd experienced worse flames, since then, and now Tirion stood in bright sunlight, almost glittering, fresh from the previous evening's light rain.

Tuor reached over to squeeze her hand. Idril smiled at him again. All fires and horrors and fears were behind them now—before them was a new Age, and a new start, and she was so happy she felt as though she could fly.

They raced the last stretch of road, raising a cloud of dust behind them and laughing all the way. Others traveling to and from the city darted out of the way, many of them laughing themselves, and raising hands to wave them on.

Idril reached the gates first, and found a familiar face waiting to welcome them home. "Grandmother!" she cried, throwing herself from the saddle and into Anairë's arms. She was taller than her grandmother, now, not the child who'd been carried from the city in her father's arms. Anairë wept through her laughter, and embraced Tuor with the same fervor with which she'd greeted Idril, exclaiming over the state of them both, dusty and windblown—all of which was to say, "Welcome home, Itarillë. You've been sorely missed."


End file.
